Written.

Sunday, 18 October 2015

An ode 5

Wall sex to the Quentin song.

I feel far too young and I muse on his age, at least let our ages justify our misery.

"Basically, it’s brilliant, it’s a love story wrapped for straight men. They even discuss that anal is better. Lovely." He pauses and just shrugs to himself. Maybe musing if to add that he’s single, but instead his stubble is scratched as if a discarded novel. "Not that straight men exist, or if they do they’re getting fucking killed under their Stars and Stripes."

In a world where social media would matter and people cared, I’d reblog it and it would escalate, yet we are just tolerated and black men killed are stripped off being men.

"Hell, I’d kill them for letting the son of a bitch god of war run around our land." I muse on his nationality and toned down accent. Maybe he would be Stars and Stripes only redirected and eye opened, but if he were it would be like making a good German among the nazis in a WWII movie just because we can’t make Yuri the good guy.

“We become hypocrites to ourselves and those who point it out to us are even more hypocritical. It’s kind of...” He clicks his finger togethers, going down the stairs to get the second suitcase. “Hey, men, you’re being a dick by supporting an artist who said that we should kill said ethnicity, I don’t know what the artists meant-”

I pause, clicking my tongue.

“VV?” I mutter and Daniel just looks at me bewildered and just shrugs. “Yeah, I used to have a big crush on her.”

He doesn’t ask me if I’m bisexual, which sometimes gets pinned against your throat or that I’m not gay enough, regardless what gay would be to me, I liked it when people said I were just gay for being androgynous, even if I had seemed to prefer one gender over the order, words are made by man and let them be so. People forget that, one word gets uttered and then picked up, just as slurs.

“Well, just coz I say she’s an asshole, I lose a friend. Get your head out of your ass, just coz she said something that is problematic or whatever the fuck she did, don’t even want to get into it. Fuck her. Looks like shit and has been doing awful ballads, anyway.” I feel a bit triggered by talking and I feel like my collar is revealed, so I just stick my hands deeper in the pocket as he carries the suitcase up and I realize that he’s still smoking indoors, holding onto the cigarette tighter than he would the suitcase filled with everything I would be called a hypocrite for because it’s mine. He coughs, excusing himself. “I fucking forgot what I was going to say, either way, it’s like I know the men are behind it, but when Russian women stand up to say hey, go on, kills us, that just revolts me considering Western ideology where the woman is truly nothing, it’s like what are you thinking? It’s like I can’t even speak out because they are women, because yeah, we’re blaming them men for the bombing, but we don’t blame the women for the funding. Why aren’t we blaming women who can revolt against the actual men against it? Because their force becomes key and nothing. They themselves drop it even lower to the battle of sexes. And yeah, women revolt me. Not that I’m interested, but it’s...

You knew white straight men would do this, but not the women.

And suddenly a woman becomes the white straight man. And all of this under the goddamn Stars and Stripes. Fuck this.”

He looks at me.

“I’m sorry to talk politics with you, Quentin, I really am. I just honestly think such small ignorance become the Pavlik Morozov. I’d murder them with my own hands. I want to their father, I would take pleasure, because this war is due to them. Because nothing is fueled without people, Hitler didn’t rise to power alone. Alison Mossharts were behind him.” Daniel stretches out his hand towards me. As if it were a hug. “Sorry, I’ll shut up.”

I just fix my collar, as if I were exposed, as if watching all horror unravel and consume with self-hate because I am told to do so, because I don’t want people killed, Daniel talking.

“I feel like my silence is no longer needed, because one’s scream means nothing and I’m not supported and I don’t want support, I just want other’s silence.” And I hold mine. “So I want to hold my hate for those responsible, the people are nazis, not just the leader.”

“And it’s even scary to speak out, it’s scary to hold the wrong ideology which the world wants you to walk with.” I speak softly, watching Daniel ease up, yet feel eager to somehow stop himself from talking about war even if I see that it’s itching him, because once you find someone to talk of it’s as if all the conversations are the same, as if you could monitor every single word you say and there’s this shattered state before you go to sleep when you realize that war is going and there is nothing you can do, it gets more intense and all the settings even in dreams start following the same pattern of an apocalyptic world where the economies crash but we’re not aware of it, some Project Mayhem gone right according to them and there is no hand of God, there’s just pure misery and the more the mind trails the more all the small VVs seem like distraction for hate, because you can fight other people, but not full structures and full ideologies, she becomes like a myth of Big Brother.

And there is the whole myth of being alone, of juicing yourself to the last drop and there is some fucked up ideology in killing yourself because all of a sudden you can’t be Florence Ray, too many people killed and there is no point in a riot, all we thought should be done is being used against us.

-

To be honest I've still got much left from An ode from last year's Nanowrimo. I usually frankly post it when I'm behind or writing a longer story, so here it is xD in other words, it's my backup coz I'm not ready with another chapter of something else:)

I just finished watching Full Metal Jacket at the time and that's the story in reference in this chapter.

To be honest, this story is brutally honest so I don't know what to add.

Pavlik Morozov was this fellow back in the USSR which snitched on his father, became a hero and then got killed by his own family.

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Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.

My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.

My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.

The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.

And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.

And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.

Because our anger is valid.

We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.

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I do not own any of the character, band or other names based off real persons and groups; they served only as inspiration for my characters in the stories, whose rights I own. The works published herein and elsewhere by me are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real life events is merely coincidental. No libel or slander is intended.